


Little Bird

by Besin



Series: World Domination and Other Occupations [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, M/M, Mutant!Heather, Mutant!Peter, Steter Week, X-Men AU - Freeform, mutant!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the direction of the Mutant Emergency Dispatch Service, Peter and Stiles embark on a mission in the suburbs, watching a girl with unknown powers with the intent of kidnapping her.</p><p>Peter is not on board with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beyond the Windowsill

**Author's Note:**

> As Steter Week rages forward, so do I.

“Heather Custer,” Stiles reads aloud, fingers playing with the edges of the paper before him. “Five years old, currently in the custody of her father, David Custer. Says here David is a telepath, and immune to the powers of other mutants. And... There's this little footnote that says something about... Cuba? Whatever, let's ignore that. So, it says he has some limits. Something about issues reading people with powers involving regeneration, coercion, and shape shifting. That must be why they sent us in.”

From his seat beside the window, peering through the line of curtains, Peter sighs. “I get me, but why would they send you?”

“It's a different time period thing. Don't worry about it.”

The man’s finger drops from the curtain, and he turns in his chair to fully face his partner. “If you say it like that I’m  _ going _ to worry about it.”

Stiles sighs. “Long story short? Me?” He taps his chest. “Not really here. Time and space is constantly in flux, you know? They had a telepath read me at headquarters. Apparently the only frequencies I’m putting off are future-me’s. Something about Fantasy novels. Happy?”

“For now.” Peering back out the window, his eyes lock on the small, insignificant form of a little girl.

In the midst of a small yard, surrounded by a poorly mowed lawn grown a bit too much, a young girl races back and forth between a tree and the back porch. Her knees pull up high to charge through the dead grass, stomping down with large, bulky rain boots hanging precariously from twiggy legs. Mouth dropping open in a giddy, faraway squeal, her fingers slap against the side of the porch with a grand, exuberant motion. Then she turns. Charging back through the grass, she sprints to the tree, short skirt billowing out behind her.

“Apparently you’re supposed to read this next bit aloud,” Stiles laughs, flopping inelegantly into the chair opposite and pushing the paper across the surface of the table.

Peter glances up, startled. “What? Why?”

Tapping the sheet amusedly, Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know. Just do it.”

Confused, the man glances down at the page, eyes lingering skeptically on the words printed at the bottom: bolded, underlined, and italics. He frowns, disappointed. “I'm not going to read that.”

“They're strict orders, Peter.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“Look, they wouldn’t have put it down if it weren’t important.”

“Fine,” he drawls, glancing at the line with open vehemence before stating, “‘Stiles is underage.’”

With a small, insignificant  _ click _ , his collar pops open.

For a moment, they both stare.

“What just happened?” Peter gasps.

“According to our briefing,” Stiles muses, tugging the paper back towards himself, “a ‘show of faith.’”

“A show of faith, huh?” he drawls. “Bastards.”

“Uh… What?”

“They’re bastards,” the man replies simply.

Stiles frowns. “Okay, I'm confused. How the hell are they bastards?”

“They could have picked any line,” Peter points out dryly. “Very literally, any other line. But they went with that one.”

“I still don’t see what the big deal is.”

“We flirted _once_ in a coat closet,” he hisses sharply, leaning firmly back in his chair, “and now they’re treating us like a pair of aphrodisiac-happy fourteen year olds.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Are you finished pitching a fit, now?”

“For the most part, yes.” Heaving a sigh, the man’s head turns slightly to peer once more out the window. “So, what else does that paper of yours say?”

“That’s actually the end of it.”

Peter turned away from the window again, staring at Stiles and open confusion. “You're kidding right?”

“No, not really.” he glances up from the sheet with a dry grimace.

“Then what's the mission?”

“That is the mission, Peter.”

“The mission?” he gapes. “That was a dossier on a five year old girl.”

“Yeah,” Stiles drawls bitterly. “That's the mission.”

“So, what? We just... Go up to her? Talk to her? Talk to her dad? What do we-”

“We’re going to kidnap her.”

Peter turns away from the window, staring at the boy across the table with wide, aghast eyes. He sputters, confused. “What-”

“It's the majority of our missions,” Stiles explains flatly. “I don't see why you're so surprised. That's  very literally how we met.”

“I didn't sign up for kidnapping!” Peter spits. “That's where I draw the line.”

“You don't have a choice.”

“I always have a choice.  Everyone  has a choice.”

“Peter, no one signed up for this,” the boy snaps. “I didn't sign up for this, Erica didn't sign up for this, and you didn't sign up for this. No one signed up for this, end of story. We’ve all been grabbed by M.E.D.S., and as a result we’ve all done things we don’t want to do. Don't pretend like you have a say in what happens to you, because you don’t.

“Now, I'm going to read the warnings again. Pay attention this time.” He clears his throat dramatically, turning his eyes to the papers in his lap and snapping them against his knees with a flourish of his wrist. “You are not to get within eight inches of the target,” he begins sharply. “You are not to make physical contact with the target. If physical contact is made, vacate the vicinity immediately.

“Do not allow visual contact with the parental unit of the target. If visual contact is made, leave the vicinity immediately. Under no circumstances are you to attempt to make contact with the parental unit of the target. Do not leave your hotel room except to resupply or approach the target with the intent of luring her from the safe house. Do not…”

“What?”

“That’s all.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Peter drawls. “Don’t even lie to me.”

Stiles sighs. “Do not allow Stiles access to electronics or media with information pertaining to society beyond the year 1997.”

The man scoffs.

“You’re laughing now,” Stiles drawls sharply. “But you haven’t seen me in a small room for six hours with nothing to do.”


	2. Little Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late chapter. Next part will be up this evening.

Sanctuary comes in the form of lunch time.

Every morning, the target's father takes her to school. He bundles her in jackets and galoshes; long scarves; hats with trailing tendrils of fluff. At 6:45 a.m. precisely, they step out the door and onto the street, checking the mail on their way. The man stuffs it quickly into his satchel, glancing up and down the street with wide, cautious eyes. And if the sidewalk is empty he grabs up the target, Heather, and they slowly make their way to the local daycare on foot. There, Stiles watches them from a nearby Starbucks.

There, he has lunch.

The Starbucks is quiet, most days. Occasionally, in the mornings, it bustles with people and noise; business as usual. He takes a seat near the wide windows that make up the wall, occasionally chatting with the barista or ordering another cup of decaf. He watches them through the window, but always make sure not to sit too close. Watches them step into the building, doors swinging wild in their wake.

Stiles goes in all of once. Follows Heather and her father into the foyer with the aid of his powers. Watches with open suspicion, and curiosity, as they take her by the hand to a small, white room and leave her there. The door is locked behind her. And if it weren't for the outright orders not to touch her, Stiles would take her right there.

Instead, he goes back to the apartment. Back to Peter.

…

“Her tutor has gloves,” Stiles drawls, settling heavily onto the small couch the apartment came furnished with. “All the way up to her elbows. It's kind of alarming.”

“You know what else is alarming?” Peter prompts flatly. “Your voice.”

“Oh, shut up!” Stiles snaps. “You're just angry because you have to stay here and _I_ get to go outside.”

Picking a new section of the ceiling to focus on, the man valiantly forces himself to find enjoyment in the small, round, purplish stain on the ceiling. “I'm not going to help you kidnap a little girl.”

“Too bad. It's our job. Very literally.”

“Well, do it by yourself.”

“Uh, yeah. I already am,” Stiles drawls. “In case you hadn't noticed, being so busy with all that intense, high stakes grocery shopping you do. Can’t you get me a book? A crossword? _Something_?"

“They don't exactly have a section labeled ‘novels for the a spoiler-free time traveller,” Stiles.”

“Yeah, dude. They literally do. They have entire sections dedicated to it. It's called 'Classic Lit.' Just, like, pick me up a copy of Little Women or something. I don't even care at this point.”

“Just for that, I should get you Twilight.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

Peter spares Stiles a long, complex look.

“What?”

“What?”

“You're looking at me funny.”

“I'm sorry; it's just weird to meet someone who doesn't know what Twilight is.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Sorta.”

“You're being vague,” Stiles scolds softly. "Stop being vague."

“I'll be as vague as I like, thanks,” Peter states simply. Then, under his breath, he murmurs, “I wouldn't pay for that, anyway.”

“Pay for what?”

...

The bus is loud and angry.

Peter peers through the window and out onto the passing sidewalk, eyeing the pedestrians critically as they meander about at negative thirty miles an hour. The bus is silent, save for the steady overbearing roar of the engine as they trundle down the  road. His eyelashes flutter against a patch of light that shines uncharacteristically through the shadows of the cityscape, glaring suddenly through the glass settling forcefully upon the sun starved occupants of the public transit system. In unison, the passengers all flinch.

By the time Peter regains his sight, a pale girl with long brown hair has settled into the seat beside him without invitation and has opened her mouth.

“What's with the sex slave collar tan line?”

Turning away from the window, Peter states at the woman, aghast. “Excuse me?”

“The sex slave collar tan line,” she repeats dutifully. Her hand reaches lazily for her ponytail, tucking it behind one ear as she hums contemplatively. “Most people try to keep that stuff private outside the bedroom, you know?”

“What the fuck?”

“Shh,” she insists. “Seriously, there are kids on here.”

Peter scoffs. “Do I look like I care?”

“You look like you just took your collar to a nice beach,” she replies dryly.

The man rolls his eyes, turning back to the window with a tired shift against the seat.

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

“Unless you can hold a conversation about general physics, modern morality, or fiction novels from the nineties, we have nothing to say to each other,” he drones to the glass.

“Actually, I work in a bookstore.”

Turning away from the window, the man chuckles. “No shit?”

...

With a heavy clatter that promises hours of profitable silence, a large bag slaps animatedly onto the wide surface of the cheap coffee table.

“Here,” Peter declares loudly, startling the boy dozing lightly on the couch.

Stiles glances up from the armrest, blinking confusedly up at the man no longer bearing a paper bag of goodies. “What's going on?”

“I got you something to spend your time on beside stalking a little girl.” He motions dramatically to the bag with one hand.

“Dude, you were supposed to get me something short and easy,” Stiles complains. “Not a small army of novels.”

“It's hardly an army.”

“A small army.”

“It's hardly an army,” Peter insists again. “It's just a series. One series. It's not even War and Peace. You should thank me.”

“Do you not see how big that bag is? It might as well be.”

“You got something against long books?” the man snaps.

“I've got nothing against long books so long as I'm not reading them.” Waving the man off with a free hand, Stiles turns further into the curve of the couch with a groan.

“Well, they're here,” Peter insists. “So don't come crying to me when you're bored.” Settling up beside the window, he peers through the curtains for a brief moment, gaze dragging lazily over the freshly trimmed lawn of their target's back yard. A small girl -- their target, Heather -- sits alone on the lawn. In her lap is a large blanket, wound about her legs in a flannel cocoon. His finger falls from the curtains, attention turning to the crisp pages of his bible, only to flick curiously back to the yard. “Hey,” he calls. “Is she usually alone in the back yard?”

“What?” Stiles gasps, leaping from his place on the couch and striding quickly across the room to settle his hands forcefully against the kitchen table. He peers around Peter, staring pointedly out into the adjacent yard with apprehension. “No,” he murmurs. “She's never alone, except in her tutoring room.”

“The white room?” Peter inquires.

“Yeah; that's the one.” He squints against the dying light of the setting sun, fingers tightening against the curve of the table as his mouth draws thin.

They watch in shock as her father races from the house, bundling her in the sheet and gathering her into his arms before sprinting desperately into the house. But even as her father turns, Heather's attention turns to follow their window, wide eyes visible even from a distance.

“What's going on?” Stiles whispers.

Turning away from the window, Peter motions to the coffee table with a hand. “Just go read for a bit. Don't worry about it.”

“Something is going on down there, and the longer we take on this mission, the longer we're away from base.”

“What happened to being happy to be outside?”

“I have to go home sometime, Peter,” the boy hisses. “This mission can't run long, hear me?”

“I hear you,” the man drones.

Rolling his eyes Stiles retreats to the coffee table with a noise of disgust. “I don't even know why I bother.”

Peter scoffs. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you're a dick,” he calls bitterly over his shoulder, collapsing onto the couch with a grimace. Digging suddenly into the paper bag, he retrieves one of the books with a frown. “Now which of these is the first volume?”

...

“Hey.” Peter reaches forward, shaking twice just before Stiles nose. “You need to sleep.”

Glancing up from the book, reddened eyes lingering first on a thin white shirt, then the man wearing it, his attention flicks quickly out the window. “Has there been change?”

“No, you just need to go to sleep,” he insists. “You've been up for, what? Thirty-nine hours? Go to bed.”

“I don't need to sleep,” Stiles argues. “Sleep is for the weak and infirm.”

“And the sleepy,” Peter adds sharply. Reaching for the book between the boy's hands, he drags it carefully away, fingers gentle against the binding. “You finished that book an hour ago - don't think I didn't notice. You've just been staring at it for a while now. Go to sleep. It's a bodily function that you very much need right now, infirm or not.”

“I can't watch the target from bed,” Stiles argues sharply even as large hands bracket his elbows and he follows easily. “What if she gets out on her own?”

“Then I'll collect her myself.”

“You?!” Stiles groans. “You don't even want to be here. You want no part of this.”

“I also want you to sleep,” Peter argues. “We all make sacrifices in our lives.”

“What? For the greater good?”

“Of course not,” Peter drawls. “We just make sacrifices. There's no such thing as the greater good. Just assholes insisting they're doing something for some sort of higher cause that implies they're less of an asshole than everyone knows they are.”

“You think about this a lot, don't you?”

Shifting the boy higher on his arm, Peter drags them firmly into the adjacent bedroom with a grimace. “I've had a lot of time to think about it,” he replies softly. Lowering the boy carefully onto the comforter, his lips thin into a grim line. “Can you promise me you'll go to sleep?”

Stiles releases a small cooked sob.

Peter flinches. “Are you okay?”

“I'm not going to be okay,” Stiles drones behind a cloud of tears, tugging the blankets defensively up to his armpits. “Not for, like, ten years.”

“Why ten years?”

“Because you're an asshole," he hisses morosely. "That's why.”

“You're sleep deprived,” Peter points out. “Close your eyes,” he commands, tugging the blankets lower down the boy's face to make sure he can breathe, “and then stay like that.”

“Yes sir,” Stiles whimpers sharply.

Stepping slowly from the room, Peter watches the boy cautiously as he backs towards the door. But as his partner makes no move to leave, he steps out into the living room with a sigh.

The coffee table is a mess of books, tissues, and Dorito dust, messy fingerprints marking the surface like the tracks of a particularly confused squirrel. Peter stares at it for a short while before retreating into the kitchen, snatching up some paper towels and descending on the living room with a spray bottle of glass cleaner. He makes short work of the fingerprints, glancing occasionally out the window into the target's yard. Then came the messy bags discarded about the couch and floor. Finally, he snatches up the books. He stacks them neatly against the corner of the table, rising high above the living room like a tall tower. But as he steps away, once more making his way to the glass cleaner, a small section of the back cover catches his eye.

There, on the bottom left hand corner of the first book, it reads simply:

HARRY POTTER AND THE SORCERER'S STONE COPYRIGHT J.K. ROWLING, 1998.

For a long moment he can only stare, the sentence burning a hole in his head. Then, glancing back at the bedroom door, he winces. “I am so sorry,” he murmurs earnestly.


	3. Voice of Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final installment will be up this evening. Thanks to Arnaud for the last minute edits, and Oliver to generally being awesome.

“You've been staring out the window for an hour now,” Peter drones, motioning to the boy's plate with his fork. “Eat your breakfast. It's going to get cold.”

“I honestly can't tell if I should call you my mom or my wife,” Stiles snips back. “All you do is shop for food and cook.”

“And remind you to take your meds,” he replies lightly, taking a satisfied bite of a bit of steamed broccoli. “Besides, all you do is stare out the window.”

“It's my job, thank you very much, and we only have a week left. They've been coming in and out of the house all morning.” Glancing down at his plate, Stiles snatches up a slice of bacon, munching on it distractedly as he turns his attention back out the window. “It's like a groundhog in March or something. There's no way to grab her like this.”

“We could always just go back to base early for your trip home,” Peter suggests.

“That would be a valid point if we knew where the base was located.”

“Touché.”

Eyes narrowing with grim finality, Stiles turns away from the window and rises to his feet.

“And where do you think you're going?” Peter inquires sharply.

“To do my job.” Snatching his jacket from the hook beside the door, he tugs it on quickly.

“Why now?”

“Because he's dropped his keys.” Stiles shrugs the last of the sleeve on and, with a sharp flick of his wrist, closes his eyes against a sudden flutter about him. It fills the room and air; the table; the window; Peter's shirt. And when he finally opens his eyes the man sits motionlessly in his chair, staring somewhere between Stiles and the living room with his eyes half shut and his mouth open wide.

Grabbing at the door knob, Stiles lets himself out.

The air is stagnant, reeking of tomato plants and gasoline. Stiles strides through it slowly, making his way down the apartment steps and out onto the sidewalk with grim determination. He approaches the girl with a frown, eyeing her father not three feet from them, bent forward to snatch a set of keys from the ground.

“No hard feelings,” Stiles tells him honestly, voice going unheard in the halted world. Turning to the girl, his fingers wind around her wrist, arm tucking beneath her waist to drag her over his shoulder. But as her cheek grazes the flesh of his neck, a small tingle begins low in his throat, flooding his chest and slowly branching out into his limbs. He pauses, fingers growing taut against the girl's wrist as his legs stagger and his knees threaten to give.

Slipping her quickly to the ground, Stiles races back to the apartment, breath harsh in the stagnant air. But even as he takes the steps two at a time a gentle breeze begins to tug at his jacket, rustling the thin material with a light hissing noise. By the time he stumbles into the living room Peter has barely risen to his feet, starting after Stiles awkwardly.

“What just happened?” he snaps. “Was that your power?”

Stiles falls to the floor with a desperate gasp of air, sucking it greedily through his nose as his lips flood with thick saliva.

“What's going on?” Peter demands a bit louder, striding forward to slap the door shut.

Turning on to his front, Stiles spits a wad of spit onto the cheap linoleum floors before hissing, “Compulsion.”

“What?”

“Heather's power; it's compulsion. Except -- I don't think she can control it.”

“Can't control it how?”

“Her skin must trigger it,” the boy gasps. “Could you take it away? Or, like, replace it?”

“What makes you think I can do that?”

“Because her power is probably triggering shit in the brain and you could probably just redirect it or something.”

Peter frowns. “And what, exactly, am I replacing?”

“Lust.”

A thick silence follows the admission, filled only with the heavy dragging of air through angry lungs.

“Excuse me?”

“Her power is lust,” Stiles repeats between desperate gulps for air. “That's why her father doesn't let her out alone. Why her mom's MIA. Why her tutor wears gloves and the school has a special room just for her; they don't know what else to do.”

Peter states at him silently for a long moment before clearing his throat awkwardly. “So... What do we do about you?”

“Can’t you just tell me nothing’s happening? Flush it out?”

“My compulsion doesn’t really work that way,” Peter informs him lowly. “I can suggest that you want things. I can’t control your body, and the decisions you make in the illusion I give you are yours. All I can do is give you a suggestion, and maybe build an illusion from it. Why else do you think I went to gay bars to pick people up? My power is very specific.”

The boy’s hips twitch uselessly against the floor, belt clacking loudly as it collides with the linoleum as a small, insignificant stain begins to seep into the seam of his pants. His throat flutters as he chokes up a wad of thick saliva. “Goddammit, just _do_ something!”

The older man keeps his eyes fixed pointedly on his partner’s face. “An illusion,” he announces quietly. “I can do an illusion.”

“Good,” Stiles breathes. “Then do it.”

Peter glances from Stiles to the coffee table, then strides quickly to the window, drawing the curtains shut. “Okay,” he whispers to himself. “Nothing huge. Just stretching some muscles you haven’t stretched in a long time.” He turns to face Stiles, watching as the boy attempts to rise up off the floor, hands pushing uselessly against slick linoleum. Clearing his throat, the man draws his breath from deep within his chest as he tells his companion firmly, “It’s not that bad.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Stiles hisses.

“You can tolerate it, for the most part,” he continues, stepping closer. “What you really want is some leftover meatloaf.”

“This really isn’t working,” the boy snaps.

“Look, if you don’t want my help you can just drag yourself into the bedroom and get yourself off, okay?” Peter hisses in reply.

“I’m not getting off to a five year old girl,” Stiles seethes.

Peter sighs, then stoops to his knees to take hold of the boy’s arm, dragging it over his shoulder.

“Whoa, what-”

“I’m going to ease you into an illusion,” Peter tells him pointedly, sliding his free arm beneath the boy’s knees, bringing him up off the floor with a grunt. “Damn, you’re heavy.” Rising to his feet, he adjusts the body in his arms, striding forward with careful steps to the bedroom door before nudging it open with his foot. “I’m going to put you on the bed, now, so don’t freak out.”

“Pretty sure… nothing you do right now will… put a dent in my current freak-out,” Stiles notes breathily, words slurring lightly. He swallows another wad of saliva, panting lightly.

Setting the boy carefully on the bed, Peter draws away with a grimace. “Are you open to compulsion?”

“I thought... we already... covered that,” the boy gasps, voice squeaking lightly.

“Just checking.” Toeing off his shoes, Peter takes a seat beside his partner with a heavy sigh before leaning forward. Shifting his weight carefully onto his arms, he slowly eases forward to press his lips gently to the cup of Stiles ear.

“What are you doing?” Stiles gasps, hips thrusting abortively into empty air, the line of his back arching desperately against the mattress.

“Easing you into it,” Peter replies with an impatient breath that whispers against the shell of Stiles ear like a promise. “Now be a good little boy and stay quiet for a bit, okay?”

The boy squirms, gasping lightly. “I can try,” he murmurs, fingers tangling in the soft blankets beneath him.

“Good,” Peter mumbles. “Now, try to stop thinking. The more tuned into me you are, the faster this works.”

“Okay,” the boy squeaks.

Squirming a bit to get his legs up on the bed, Peter brings one hand up to massage the line of Stiles' thigh. “I'm going to take your pants off. Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” Stiles squeaks.

With a confirming nod, Peter reaches quickly for the button of his partner's jeans. Slowly, he picks at it until it pops open, fingers playing with the zipper for a long, tense second. “Better?”

“So much better,” Stiles manages quickly. “So, so much better.”

Clearing his throat lightly, the man takes a long, sharp breath deep into his chest, air whistling past his teeth. Then, from deep in his stomach comes his voice, echoing endlessly into the room. “I'm grabbing you through your jeans.”

Stiles gasps, fingers suddenly going lax in the sheets.

“Good?” Peter asks.

“Amazing,” Stiles replies unevenly.

Running his fingers up the boy's stomach, drawing up his sternum and dragging up the line of his Adam's Apple. “What are you thinking about?”

“Heather,” the boy gasps.

“Hmmm…” Peter hums. “Better fix that.” Running fingers along the boy's jaw, he draws his face to the side. “Look at me,” he demands suddenly, earning a startled whine. “You are only allowed to think about me right now,” he commands, voice coming a bit softer.

For a while the room is only filled with their breathing, heavy and desperate. Their eyes are locked, blue on brown, and for long second Peter fights the urge to lean in; to close the space between them like a car crash.

“I'm pulling you out of your boxers,” Peter tells him. “Nice and slow, jerking you slowly.”

Stiles whines, thrusting weakly against the empty air.

“What are you thinking about?” Peter inquires under his breath, air coming short in his chest.

Pursing his lips quickly, Stiles leans nervously forward to press their mouths cautiously together. Then, giving one last thrust into the air, whines pitifully as his underwear darkens with come.

They part a while later, noses brushing lightly as their lips slip together one last time.

“Was…” Stiles looks away. “Was that okay?”

“That was... Nice.” Blinking away his confusion, Peter spares the boy's a small grin. “It was nice.”

Nodding carefully, as if the moment might break, Stiles settles back against the pillow. Then, slowly, his fingers twine with Peter's. "Is this okay, too?"

Before the man answers, he hesitates. “By this, you mean…” He trails off, unsure.

Stiles gives his hand a gentle squeeze, eyes searching.

Slowly, Peter returns the gesture, then lays back with the boy, attention turning to the ceiling.

“I've never had a boyfriend before,” Stiles admits softly.

“Neither have I.”

"I've never been on a date."

“I was on one,” Peter adds softly. “Once.”

They're quiet for a while, basking in the silence.

“Is that what we are, now? Boyfriends?”

“If you're okay with that,” Peter replies.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers. “Yeah, I think I am.”


	4. Pitohui

Dozing lightly, Stiles peers around the room with a small grin. The room is dark; no longer lit by long strings of light pouring in through the windows, and the sheets are pleasantly rumbled. He swipes a hand across the blankets, pleased to find them still warm before he rises drowsily to his feet. Stopping to tug on his underwear, he strides into the living room with lazy stretch.

Peter glances up from the kitchen table, eyes landing politely on his partner’s face. “Evening,” he greets.

“Morning,” Stiles replies snarkily. His attention turns to the bible in his companion’s hand, confused. “Why do you read that so much? You aren’t one of those bible humpers, are you?”

The man chuckles. “Hardly.”

“Then why?”

Peter hums. “When you’re running from a shadow organization that seems to be government but really isn’t that’s intent on your capture, finding time to visit the library can be a chore and a half.” He brandishes the bible with a light flick of his wrist. “But in almost every hotel room is a Holy Bible, and they’re rather easy to steal.”

Chuckling lightly, Stiles strides up to the table, bending in half to press a soft, curious kiss to the man’s cheek. And as he pulls away, he whispers, “Is this okay?”

The book falls to the table with hardly a sound and Peter’s hands come up to Stiles’ face, dragging him down for a long, chaste kiss.

Pulling away, the man insists quietly, “More than.”

And from the door comes three small knocks.

Peter glances up sharply, eyes flicking from Stiles to the window. “Who’s there?” he calls softly. He motions quickly with his hand toward the rest of the apartment, rising from his seat to step around the table.

Stepping away, the mostly naked boy strides quickly to the bedroom.

The man approaches the door with open apprehension, unlocking and turning the knob with cautious movements. And as he pulls it toward himself, his eyes widen in shock.

“You’re here to take me away, aren’t you?” Heather asks him cautiously. “Will I be experimented on?”

Peter blinks down at her, alarmed. “I don’t know,” he replies earnestly. “But they didn’t experiment on me, if that’s any consolation.”

Striding from the room fully clothed, Stiles glances between the two of them, confused.

The girl nods, then offers her gloved wrists in some sort of surrender. “I left daddy a note,” she tells them, voice small. “You don’t have long before he figures out where I am.”

Turning to look Stiles in the eye, Peter nods in Heather’s direction. “You watch her. I’ll light the signal.”

“Uh, sure,” the boy replies, watching in mild confusion as Peter walks through the living room and out the back door. When he turns his attention back to Heather, she locks her gaze with his.

“Are the rooms small, where I’m going?”

Slowly, Stiles shrugs. “The more they trust you, the bigger they get.”

“Good,” she whispers. “I want a big world. The whole world.”

“So, uh…” The boy trails off. “Why are you coming so willingly? May I ask?”

“Because daddy’s at the end of his rope,” Heather replies easily. “That’s what teacher says.”

“So you’re just going to give yourself over?”

“Yes,” she replies, voice startlingly even. “Yes, I am.”

…

The ride to headquarters is quiet and uneventful, with Heather occasionally asking, “Are we there yet?”

When they finally arrive, Lydia stands before their car in jeans and a long sleeve shirt, gloves tucked into the hems and boots up to her knees. She waves Heather forward with a smile. “Come here, little bird,” she calls sweetly.

Slowly, Heather steps forward. “Are you going to experiment on me?” she asks.

“Not without your permission,” Lydia informs her softly. “Never without your permission.”

“Good,” the girl murmurs. “Do I get a big room?”

Dropping to her knees, the woman looks her in the eye with a wide smile. “Since you came willingly, you even get a balcony.”

Slowly, a wide grin spreads across Heather’s face. “And can I go outside?”

“Yes, you can,” Lydia replies. “Just ask me any time I’m not busy and I’ll see what I can do.”

And with this, Heather promptly breaks into tears.

Edging closer to Stiles, Peter reaches across the bare distance between them, tangling their fingers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a safe Steter Week.


End file.
